That changed this past weekend.
For those of you who have no idea who I am or what I do, here's a quick synopsis.
I'm a baseball coach, teaching private lessons in Pflugerville, Texas. Over the years, I've coached at the high school, college and professional levels. More about that some other time.
For the summer, I agreed to coach a 16-under team based out of the center where I teach.
Our first tournament was this past weekend centered in the lovely metropolis of Waco, Texas. (No, I did not check out the tour of the Branch Davidian compound.)
Now, the story of the weekend was not the fact that our team was mercilessly pounded three times (8-3, 13-1, 15-6), nor the fact that I watched our boys commit 8 errors in Game One and another 7 errors in Game 2.
The BIG deal was the drive home. After feeling my steering wheel shake uncontrollably all day Saturday, I simply assumed my alignment was off but figured I could get it taken care of on Monday.
However, about 30 miles outside of Waco, my front left tire literally exploded.
Here's some pictures to prove it although they don't quite do the experience total justice.
Truthfully, I was lucky the car didn't flip on me because when the tire blew, my car started to veer hard to the left.
Somewhere in between I remembered my old driver's education class back in high school and pumped the brakes.
Abruptly going from 75 mph to zero on three tires isn't all that easy but I managed to bring the car to a stop, albeit up against the concrete median in the far left shoulder.
Three hours later, my car and I were delivered to the local Firestone repair shop where I came to the final conclusion that the sadness I experienced after getting drummed three times pales in comparison to the relief I felt knowing I hadn't died on the drive home.
Trust me when I tell you my future posts will be much lighter in nature...
